I slept for 12 hours the other day. My kidney made me tired. Or maybe it was the new pill – I don’t know. I shall find out at the doctor’s this afternoon.
I think there’s something wrong with my mind and body – like an inappropriate collision is about to happen. It took me a while to realise that this routine caused my OCD; the need to clean and food shop – it’s driving me crazy. But this is the only way to function independently. If I only cared a little bit more. Perhaps I could fake it, pretend.
Some people wonder why I still follow Vincent Gallo on Twitter and why he’s still in my heroes’ album since he’s proven to be a racist prick. This is not the point. All my heroes carry one characteristic that I have, admire or envy. Gallo is spiteful. What do I care about all my heroes as people? I care about achievements and one outstanding characteristic – this is all. And I dream about marrying them.
I’m becoming more and more terrified about September. I admit that I don’t want to work because it’d be bad for my mental health. All I’m qualified for is working in retail, and I know it would lead to kidney failure, eczema, and a nervous breakdown. This is a world where you wished you were no artist because these jobs don’t make you money. So, why am I not a skilled accountant?
Things are like this because they are like this. Full stop. The reason why this and that is wrong is because of this and that. Full stop.
Why do I want to break boundaries and look beneath the surface of everything? Why do I refuse to be like anyone else and accept the way things are? Why don’t I find a man and squeeze out some puppies? Why can’t I fuck anybody? FUCK anybody! Why don’t I drink alcohol despite missing an enzyme? Fuck the Asian flush–even if my fucking eyes narrow to ugly slits! They are slanted motherfuckers anyhow!
Where was I?
Ah, right, I went to see Pagliacci yesterday. It wasn’t as good as Madame Butterfly. I hate how that opera show was primarily based on Pagliacci’s wife, the whore and how we are to empathise with her. Pagliacci killed her and her lover. Does anyone empathise with Pagliacci? I didn’t have the feeling they did…As if adultery was something acceptable in a play like that.
And as previously mentioned in my unpublished blog post: I’ve been going to the opera alone. Sorry to those I’ve been lying to. I’ve not been going with a friend.
I wanted to be alone.
Let’s go to the cinema instead? But not on the 13th of next month, as I’ll be watching the original Madame Butterfly at the Royal Albert Hall. Alone.
It’s not afternoon yet, and I’ve already closed the curtains. This terrible draft is making my kidneys feel cold. I’ve already put a cloth around the window frame. One day I will stuff this whole town with a cloth.
